Reluctant Assassin
by Rapier-of-Red
Summary: In order to pay for his ill sister's hospital bills, Matthew is taught to kill by a man, named Arthur, who is willing to exploit the boy's desperate need for money. AU, character deaths, future AmCan. Further  and better  description inside.
1. Chapter 1

Hello, everyone stumbling into this story. It's going to be multi-chaptered and I have them all planned out...I just...might take a while to upload new chapters? I'm going to try really hard to update. This story was born from my friend saying that no one could be as 'moe' as Matthew without forcing it/ it being faked. I..I don't know how it turned into this, but it did.

Warnings: Alternate Universe, Swearing and Character death. The characters that die were seleceted from a random number generator. I hate killing these characters, but for plot's sake I had to. I'm so sorry if your favourite dies! Please don't kill me. **Character death in this chapter and in chapters to come. **

Pairings: Okay, I said somewhat AmCan in the summary, and it will be, but this story is not focusing on romance and whatnot.

Please enjoy the product of my odd brain, I hope you enjoy it. If nobody likes it, I'll probably drop it. Why keep writing something no one likes? Haha, well, anyway, enough of my rambling! Enjoy the story so far. Better explanations to come in future chapters. If anybody is interested, that is.

Relectant Assassin

"_You are to assassinate a wealthy business man, who is known to have discovered dangerous amounts of illegal paraphernalia."_

_A pause, brief and thoughtful, bright irises locking in the dimly lit office. A quiet hum of questioning lingers, the sound of a wooden chair creaking back on two legs. Feet propped up on his superior's desk in a display of reoccurring defiance and disregard, the assassin raises thin blond eyebrows._

"_And why, per se, am I the one for the job?"_

_A manila folder is pushed across the table, open, displaying a dark skinned man with a cigar in hand. Calculating eyes, ever cold, never trusting, glance over every detail; the photo is locked away in memory. _

"_This particular target has a taste for sweet, innocent faces. Regardless of gender. Stuff right up your alley, poppet."_

_A coy smile spreads across the young assassin's face. Without another word, the file folder is picked up and tucked beneath lithe arms._

"_Look at that pretty little face. No one would ever believe that you're such a heartless twat underneath those flashy violet eyes. That is why you are the one for the job. Unless, of course, you've simply lost your touch?" the boss laughs, reaching into his mahogany desk drawer for a cigarette. "Got a light?"he asks belatedly._

_The younger boy rolls his eyes and reaches to pull a canary yellow lighter out of the back pocket of his jeans. "Lost my touch?" he sounds incredulous, but the elder has known the boy long enough to tell his fake emotions from real ones, "really, now."_

_His entire countenance changes in one fluid motion. Gone is the stoic, cocky boy, with an alluring smirk and cold voice. Instead, in his place, a watery smile is timidly sent in the elder's direction, the young assassin appearing to quake with anxiety beneath his very gaze. He bites his lip and almost seems to fade around the edges._

_The older man behind the desk throws his head back and laughs, the sound affectionate and vaguely impressed, as he shakes his head, "You're almost too good at that. Just like I taught you."_

_In a moment, the cold, empty stare is back in the other's eyes and he smirks languidly, plucking the cigarette from the other's hand and lighting it, taking a long drag of smoke into his lungs; he leaves it there, breathing deep. A bemused sound escapes from his superior and he asks, "When can I expect you back?"_

_The smoke is breathed out in leisure before he hears a reply._

"_I will report back when I am finished, boss," is all he gets before the boy leaves, cigarette in hand._

_A faint chuckle, a mere snuff of moderate amusement and mild annoyance, leaves lips quirked into a faint smile._

"_Call me Arthur, lad."_

_

* * *

_The home of the target has the grandeur of money to flaunt; marble floors and high archways, built like an old cathedral with a new age twist. Hundreds of well dressed guests mingle, their chatter and laughter heard from the expanse of lit gardens and gazebos outside. Champagne, possibly more expensive than some of the mansion's furniture, is passed around on silver platters by waiters with permanent smiles. And who wouldn't smile, with the amount of money they are likely to be payed that night?

The ballroom is a large, high ceilinged room with a chandelier that belongs in the movies; white frosted glass like icicles flowing down in candescent swirls of shimmering light. Two sets of stairs lead up to a balcony over the room, a place to get away from the noise; if even for a moment. Slow, sweet, sensual jazz breezes through, the musicians whims changing by the second. A slow piece becomes fast, too fast, slow, too slow, meshing in a perfect frenzy of sound and motion.

He stands by the tables of food, casting eyes around everyone in the room. A trained mind has already found every exit: one behind the music stands, one to the left and down the corridor (a long, swooping affair of marble pillars and silk tapestries), one to the right, several up the stairs.

The target has yet to arrive.

"Champagne, sir?"

He blinks slowly, smile spreading across his light, lovely features.

"O-oh, yes, thank you," he says, eyes shining in mirth.

The waitress, seeming a tad stunned, mumbles a quick 'you're welcome' and excuses herself. The other tries hard not to roll his eyes. Acting so meek and feeble makes him a bit sick but he knows he pulls it off well. They always fall for it, after all.

He reaches inside his suit jacket and fingers the vile contained in his breast pocket; _good,_ all clear.

"May I have your attention!" A voice boomed from the balcony, dark and rich.

The target.

"I would like to thank you all for coming to my celebration! Nothing makes me happier than watching all of you enjoy my home. Feel free to ask me anything you'd like! Now, please," he said with a swoop of his hands, "enjoy my humble abode. Let the party continue!"

At this, a large burst of applause and cheering filled the hall. The music commenced once more and the target moved down the stairs, conversing with several couples as he made his grand descent. A sense of guilt and dread filled the assassin for a split second until a sharp voice in his mind sounded. _No, no, no, Matthew, love. Emotions just get in the way. You're a killer now, remember? So, act. Like. One. _Matthew does remember; he does remember his teachings and he most certainly does remember each word being punctuated with another laceration to his body.

He quickly suppressed all emotions and a dark smirk grew on the assassin's lips, only to be wiped away a moment later, when he remembered his current timid character, and replaced with a look of pure, simple innocence. A few people bumped into him, then, and quickly apologized for not seeing him. He merely laughed it off with a wave of his hands. That was one of the disadvantages – _or_ _benefits, I suppose_, he mused – of this quiet, shy demeanor. He became practically invisible, sometimes.

He struck up a conversation with the people around him, laughing joyously and sweetly, sipping at his champagne. A while passed before he noticed the man's brown eyes on him. With an internal smirk, he poured on and upped the innocence and charm until he thought he could go no further. With a quick, shy, but meaningful glance in the target's direction, the assassin noticed the hungry look growing in deep brown eyes.

_Perfect,_ he thought.

When the man started moving toward him, the younger boy walked toward the dance floor. He took note of the way those eyes drank in his crisp black tux and sapphire blouse. When the target was close enough to touch him, the assassin went in for the proverbial 'kill'. He forced himself to trip and almost fall. Someone caught him from behind.

"Woah, there. Careful now," the man's voice, a deep, somewhat rough tone, chuckled.

Turning around with a fake blush and owlishly bright and innocent eyes blinking, the assassin stuttered a quick, squeaky, "O-Oh, I-I'm so sorry!"

When the hungry look only grew darker, an internal dance of victory began. It hadn't been more than five minutes and he already had the target wrapped around his finger.

"What's your name? I don't believe we've met before. You can call me Miguel," the man smiled, reaching for another glass of champagne from a wandering waiter. Inwardly, Matthew smirked and his eyes, their true colour hidden behind emerald green contacts, lit up in mirth.

With nerves so fake it was a wonder nobody called him on it, he loosely twirled a lock of his artificial brown hair. "I..I-I my name is M-Matthew, sir.."

"Ah, ah, none of that 'sir' stuff, alright? I told you what to call me, beautiful," the target answered, velvet smile on his dark face. Matthew mused that, in an alternate reality, the man could perhaps be considered quite handsome.

Allowing a proper blush to spread across his face, he looked away and giggled softly, mumbling '_beautiful_' under his breath like a love struck teenager.

"Care to dance?"

The blonde-turned-brunette nodded enthusiastically, keeping a firm hold on his drink as they made their way on to the crowded dance floor. They were pushed and shoved as they tried to find an open place to dance. Spotting one of the exit points he had picked out earlier, he timidly pulled the target to the open space near by it.

They danced for quite some time, the target not seeming to want a change in dance partners. The target, or 'Miguel' as he was called, was slowly becoming more and more intoxicated as the night wore on. It was nearing midnight when Matthew finally saw his opening. The man didn't even see it coming. One minute, he's dancing with a young, sweet faced boy, the next moment he's drinking back what's left in his glass when the current song ends. Matthew flashed pearly whites at the target, tiptoeing and kissing his cheek before parting with a coy smile, empty vile in his left hand glinting in the light of the ballroom.

He's halfway out the exit door when he hears the screams and commotion begin behind him. The music is cut off and people are wailing, crying out for doctors. Matthew merely releases a dark, self-depreciating chuckle under his breath and runs out into the night.

-  
A/N: Should I continue? Haha? Or just give up...?

ps. Ohmygod I am so sorry Cuba and Cuba fans. It killed me to kill him. DX


	2. Chapter 2

Warnings: Alternate Universe, Swearing and Character death. The characters that die were seleceted from a random number generator. I hate killing these characters, but for plot's sake I had to. I'm so sorry if your favourite dies! Please don't kill me. **Character death in chapters to come. **

Pairings: Okay, I said somewhat AmCan in the summary, and it will be, but this story is not focusing on romance and whatnot.

Um...haha...I know this is like really mother f*cking late...I'm a horrible person but...some bad things happened and I was busy and didn't want to write...But! Things are getting better, so I pulled this out! I'm sorry to those that showed an interest in this story. I didn't mean to drop it for two months.. Je m'excuse... (Oh God, I'm so sorry). Well, without further ado! Let the chapter begin

Reluctant Assassin Chapter Two

It's miserable outside; the type of miserable that sticks to the body. It's cloying and it's wet and it's cold– sickeningly so. The busy streets are dead, aside from the people crashing through puddles, pushing to get out of the rain. Horns flare in silence, the yellow, white, black, of the taxis being the only colour on an otherwise despairingly grey morning. The cold rain the city awoke in has long since passed 'gloomy' and has bypassed straight into horrid.

He's leaning on his hand, green eyes gazing through the streaked window of the lowly coffee shop. The ever frequent glances to his watch have since stopped. The rain, it seems, has a way of dulling his senses and pulling his thoughts back in time.

(And it's disconcerting to him, really, just how easily he can slip into his old mindset. How quickly he can be sucked into such a melancholic stupor; impenetrable by almost everything).

Branching out, a bit, he's waiting for a potential assassin to meet with him, here, in this empty, run down café. The assassin is more than '_fashionably_' late and, as many have or will come to know, he is not a patient man. He chuckles lowly to himself, shaking his head as he watches the people outside skitter and shuffle in attempts to leave the torrent of elements just beyond the glass panes. It's a dark laugh—nothing light, nothing humorous, just an underlying tone of irritation. And, as much as he wants to make his apprentice— (_can he even really call the boy that?_) —sweat and worry, he knows that this idea is far from brilliant.

(In all honesty, he admits quietly, it's far from _smart_, really).

However, he also understands that his little assassin has gotten cocky. Hiring someone new for this job will surely throw the boy for a loop and make him remember his place in this business. (_Remember, remember, you are under my boot, you are mine to move; like a chess piece, like a puppet. Your strings are mine to hold). _He sighs as he grabs his tea, pale hands curling around the subtle warmth subconsciously.

It's after going on to almost an hour later than the assigned meeting time that someone else sidles into the seat across from him. He tries to start a proper conversation, really, he does, but the air blown in from the swinging door is damp and cold. The room is dreadful, dark and dying, and his tea has long since been lukewarm. His mind is a messy blur of the past and the present, meshing together in a frenzy of thought that leaves him somewhat staggering. This new assassin is not nearly as young as his usual little nuisance (no matter how good or important Matthew is to his business, the boy is still _a bloody nuisance_), and, again, Arthur questions this idea of his. He runs tired hands through his short sandy blond locks and huffs a breath.

He pulls a manila folder out of his bag and pushes it across the table the second the waitress leaves, muttering a clipped, menacing: 'you're late' to his…_associate_. When the assassin across from him looks slightly chastised before he picks the folder up, Arthur rolls his eyes. As the man quickly and carefully flips through the information, he tries desperately _not _to think of how Matthew would have flipped him off first, before reaching for the folder.

("_I may be your hired assassin, but that doesn't mean I work to your beck and call," _Matthew had once said in a moment of defiance. After being struck and…_punished_…for his behaviour, Matthew never brought the topic up again…at least, not _verbally. _The rude gestures still occurred quite often).

He watches the new assassin for a few minutes before he closes his eyes, tugging on his hair and trying to stave off the need for nicotine.

"Let's get down to business," he finally manages, willing himself to sound professional. The potential assassin looks up, startled, and closes the folder with two shaking hands (and Arthur can't help but notice the man looks a little pale).

Despite his best effort to introduce the target to his client, he still can't seem to call his mind back from the past.

~o~

_Eight years ago_

When Arthur left home at age eighteen, his mother had told him to never come back; his

siblings had agreed eagerly (having been not-so-secretly-hating him their whole lives). When he just laughed, flipped them off, ran away with his older brother's visa and an acceptance letter to university in hand, they hated him more so.

(It wasn't that his siblings despised him, really. It was that he was always great at everything; took to anything like a fish to water and they resented him. They resented him and it built and built and culminated in a weird hatred.

His mother, on the other hand, hated that he looked the spit of his drunken father. Every time she saw him she thought of the husband that left her with four children to raise on her own. It didn't help that the bottle was her best friend, too).

His life, after leaving home, was perfect. He certainly didn't miss the physical and verbal abuse. He got himself a decent job that he actually liked and life was good. He had no problems, really, aside from the intern at the office that was assigned to work under him. (She hated his guts, called him an imperialistic asshole. He hasn't ever understood why, completely – perhaps because he controlled her work load and pay? He just knows that she hates him and wants, in her words, 'independence from his stupid reign').

All in all, though, life was great. Life was great for four years. Of course, though, something always has to go wrong….

"I'm sorry, Arthur, but we're going to have to let you go," his boss sighs, handing the twenty-two year old man in front of him the supplies from his office.

"But, why? Whatever for?" He's dumbstruck. What could have possibly brought this on?

"Oh, nothing's happened. We're just…moving in a new direction and it's not something that I have time to discuss. I'm sorry, I'm really very busy. Have a nice life, Mr. Kirkland."

Just like that, he is ushered out the door, security personnel making it so that he cannot get even one word—(_But, but why? What's going on? Hey! Let me go, damnit! Let me go!)_ – in edge wise. They close the door in his face and, from behind it; he can hear the high, shrill, victorious laughter of the deep skinned intern with the sharp smile behind pretty dark eyes.

("_Out of my way," she had once sneered, shoving him with nails as acrylic and fake as the façade of gentleness she carried when around the higher ups. He had then, as politely as he possibly could, knocked her armful of papers down. And, then, he had proceeded to trod across them as many times as he could)._

And, just like in the Shakespearean works that he is so very fond of, pathetic fallacy strikes at the worst possible moment. The rain pours down in buckets and he can't help but feel both depressed and slightly justified. Nothing worse than losing the job you worked so hard to get, only to have to walk home in bright, glorious sunshine and the sounds of happy-go-lucky people.

It had taken him half a year to get out of the spiral of depression he had thrown himself into. (Well, in reality, it only took a couple months to ditch the depression. The real thing he had to combat was his growing disdain for sobriety). During those months, he had taken to excessive binge drinking, nicotine, _sins of pleasure_ and a few other fruitless wastes of money.

What had saved him was another man down on his luck. However, this man hadn't dropped himself into a life of debauchery and memory loss (or sleeping, crying, _praying, _over a porcelain bowl for that matter, either). He had, instead, become bitter and willing to give money for vengeance; to give money for the death of his enemies. This is where Arthur first fell into the business of killing.

(After the other – his very first target – had died by his hands, he watched the blood pool on them for a long while. Then, he retched and released everything he had in his stomach. Once he had disposed of the body and fled the scene, ensuring he had done his 'job' well, he washed himself for hours. The feeling wouldn't — and still won't — leave; it's a raw, unclean, and yet slightly powerful feeling that, though it never leaves, dulls after the first few kills).

He's good at what he does and, whether or not – (_not) —_ thebusiness is respectable, it's still a damn good source of income. His so called 'business' starts out slow and very much underground; working through hushed-spread word of mouth and the intimate lines of wealth connected between those with money to flaunt.

(Arthur had always been a smart boy – passing all his classes with top honours. It is from the everyday things he knows that he draws out his skills in murder. Forensics and chemistry had been some of his favourite classes, through high school _and _university. Poisons are his specialty, but he also knows how to clear up blood and not leave a trace of himself at the scenes).

His work, though kept in secrecy, spreads quickly. Soon, he is able to turn his little bargain for money into a full-out business. The rich men were amazed at his quick abilities and eagerly watched as this somewhat meek looking grad student turned into a money hungry sadist.

It's a little over a year and a half into the business that he has his first scare of an assassination gone wrong. He still succeeds but the case was _this close_ and he doesn't know why the scare shocked him so bad but it does. Perhaps it is the realization, so sudden, a feeling similar to falling into icy water, that he could go to jail for life that scares him so. Regardless, this is when he decides that _why should I do the dirty work when I can hire someone else to do it for me? _And he does, actually. He goes through many potential assassin candidates before realizing that none of them are as good as they say. There is more than one close call and he finds himself caught in a rut.

(_"You could have landed me in jail!" he had screeched, knife lodging into the shoulder of a young assassin who was more than 'a little' sloppy in the job. The boy had pleaded for his life and Arthur, hardened after losing his life and killing so many innocents, didn't even think twice before slitting his throat. In fact, he smiled_).

Arthur never really had a great life. The only thing he truly prided himself on was his education and his job. His mother had been a drunk, his father never around. His siblings were no better and he often was left to fend for himself. When he lost his job, everything else seemed to cease to matter. He's somewhat fallen into another cycle of depression, heavy laden with drink and drug, when something unexpected happens.

He's walking along the sidewalk, feeling stressed and sorry for himself – (and how can he know what he is supposed to do? These new assassins aren't any good and he can hardly just throw himself back into the business) – when someone bumps into him.

Blinking dazedly, he catches wide violet eyes and blond hair before the little boy runs off. It takes him a minute to realize what has happened but, when he does, he snarls and charges off in the direction the young boy went. Be damned if he lets himself be pick-pocketed by some little shit. He may be a run-down assassin but he's still an _assassin_, damn it.

The boy is good; weaving and switching directions with expertise. He is quick and light footed, and the assassin thinks the boy disappears for a moment before his eyes catch the boy again. Arthur pushes his way through the crowd with a growing sense of excitement. _The boy is good._ The chase keeps on for longer than the former assassin believed would happen. The excitement is growing, growing, _growing – and can this be the thing I've been waiting for? _

Eventually, the boy makes a slip up, one wrong move, _check mate_, and he's cornered himself in an alley. His little chest is heaving and oh, he looks to be about ten or eleven at the most. He looks malnourished, pale, and somewhat dirty; perhaps a street kid? His eyes have the wide, dazed look of prey that knows it has no escape. Arthur is bent over, hands on his knees, breathing heavily and blocking the exit. It's quiet for a moment, then:

"S-Stay b-back! Stay back!" The boy yells with a surprising amount of force behind it. His small, shaking hands pull out a crude knife and he points it in what he must think is a threatening gesture. Arthur stands back up and smirks, hands help up in a placating manner, humouring the boy.

"I'm warning you! I-I-….I'll kill you if I have to!"He shouts again; voice ready to fight, body shrinking away from danger subconsciously (and Arthur wonders, minutely, if the boy has been out here long). He approaches with small, easy steps, hands still spread out calmly. The kid is shaking so hard, he's lucky he hasn't dropped the knife yet.

It takes him a moment but he quickly comes to a conclusion once the idea forms in his mind. He wants this boy. Wants to take him and teach him and warp him. Wants the innocence in his eyes to fade to darkness, to bitterness, to disdain and he wants to be there to say _it's alright, just kill them, just kill them all what do you care. _Mostly, he just wants someone to be like him.

He stops about halfway from the boy and drops the smirk. He cracks his knuckles and watches as the boy flinches inwardly, body pressed to the wall and curled in protectively. In what he likes to believe is a calm voice he asks, "Why did you take my wallet?"

A startled look flashes through violet pools and the kid bites his lip. There's a pause before: "I need the money." And it's whispered nearly so silently that Arthur has to lean in to hear it.

"You need the money? Hmm," the assassin starts, a dark look blooming on his face, prominent eyebrows drawn together, "and what if I need it more?"

The little blond looks conflicted for a moment, eyes flashing between the knife in his hand, the wallet in the other and the stranger in front of him. Then he steels himself visibly, stands up straighter, and mutters, "Then I'll kill you and t-take it a-anyway!"

Arthur is silent for a second, before he starts to laugh. He laughs so hard that his eyes water and when he is sure the boy looks so indignant that he may strike; he lunges through the last inches of space and grabs the child's wrist. "Good answer," he chuckles.

With a yelp, the knife hits the alley floor and the mock bravado is gone.

"Please don't kill me!" the little blond cries, thrusting the wallet towards Arthur. The assassin revels in his struggles for a moment before he sets the kid down. He crouches down to be eye level with the now teary-eyed boy and huffs a breath.

"None of that," he commands and the boy stops and looks up, frightened. "You said you needed the money, yes? That's why you tried to take mine?"

The kid nods his head, limp blond curls bobbing with the movement. Arthur pauses again, trying to decide if what he is about to do will be worth his strife. "How old are you, kid? And what's your name?"

"Eleven, s-sir, and my name is Matthew."

Crucial question, critical moment; make or break situation: "Have you ever killed anyone, Matthew?"

The boy shakes his head, big eyes wide and Arthur sighs (_'Knew it,' he thinks)._ But, oh well, maybe this might still work. He is desperate, and this might just be his last resort. If he can train the boy well, if he can teach him to kill, to be ruthless, then maybe his business can be saved.

"To reiterate an earlier point: you need the money, yes?" he asks, coy smile, glinting eyes and Matthew is equally parts afraid as he is entranced by this man; so, he nods again.

"And you've _never _killed anyone? Anyone at all?"

Another nod. Crucial question, critical moment; make or break situation:

"…What if I said I could fix your problem, Matthew, what would you do?" He knows he's won the moment violet eyes light up. Game. Set_. Match._

"How could you?" a little voice; a little terrified, a little awed, all bits hopeful.

"With a very simple deal! I fix your problem, you fix mine. Presto."

There's a stagnant moment of dead air where neither of the move. Arthur's chanting an inner mantra of _say yes say yes just say yes damnit_ and Matthew is running it over in his mind.

Finally;

"…I'll do it."

The smirk on the assassin's face blossoms into something frightening in appearance and he laughs while pushing himself into a standing position. _Perfect._

"Perfect! Now, say, Matthew," he starts, plotting and dark, "have you ever killed anyone?"

Matthew, for his part, looks confused. "Um, I've told you I haven't."

The Cheshire-esque smile is alarming in its ferocity. It's nearly feral. Arthur pulls the boy to his side and guides him out of the alley way. He's still smiling when he leans down to the boy's ear and whispers:

"Then, it's about time you learn how to."

_Check mate._


End file.
